Like a Cigarette (Shakira & Adam Levine / Shadam)

(Sexual) Frustrations

The elevator is always one place for a moment of intimacy.

It was the music that got to her, loud and obnoxious, making her head throb like the heartbeat of a teen in love.

Or, perhaps, it was the bottle of champagne she managed to down--it was champagne, right?

Or, maybe, it was the way her ex-fiance pranced around the dance floor, trying to catch the eye of curvaceous girls with fair skin, before meeting her eye and waved . . . like he was happy . . . like she was happy.

It could be all three, for all she knew, but she wasn't all that sure, and she didn't think about it for she was already out the hallway with the excuse that she felt ill. She hoped her good friend, Usher, would understand, but she wasn't sure about that either--after all, it was his engagement party she was ditching.

Shakira cursed as she stepped her foot down the wrong way, the heel on her sole breaking in the process. She took both off to carry and adjusted her dress so she wouldn't have breasts exposing for magazines worldwide--her reputation was already spiralling downhill quickly enough without that acting as a catalyst.

She stepped into the elevator, pressing the button to get to her floor in the hotel. There was approximately 150 other celebrities staying at the hotel at the moment--thanks to Usher--which meant about four times more the crowd of fans and paparazzi. She didn't need that.

She watched the elevator doors pull to a close, staring at the empty hallway in front of her, and sighed. Her shoulders felt heavy and she could feel the wave of dizziness hitting her like a bullet and she came to the conclusion that she'd much rather be playing anatomy with some guy who'd call her beautiful and sexy right now than waiting for the morning alone just to get punched by a hangover . . . but her agent says, and she could hear him now, Shakira, you know the media's gonna be up your ass and my ass if they were to find out. Settle down with another guy. Forget the jackass, okay? But don't start picking up guys to fuck around with. That's trouble.

She felt her heart slam into a dangerous somersault when a hand that came out of fucking nowhere pulled the doors open. A person entered and she cocked her head to the side. Brown hair, hazel eyes, he's tall with a tattoo that peeked out on his right chest from his dress shirt that wasn't buttoned up all the way. His mouth occupied one lit cigarette.

She scrunched her nose in irritation.

"What?" he asked in what Shakira would categorized as the rudest tone on planet Earth and perhaps even half of the Earth's moon . . . but she did slightly mugged him.

"You're smoking in an elevator," and she cringed because she knew her Colombian accent didn't do her justice when trying to speak matter-of-factually.

He took up the space next to her before giving her a sideways glance, "Not against the rules in here. The manager said nothing when I walked past him."

Shakira frowned, her brain taking just a bit longer in comprehending the words he just said. Combined with her accent, the alcohol influence didn't do the speed in her comebacks any good either.

"Second-hand smoke just won't do for the hair," she replied, running a hand through her tangled locks. "Or the dress. Don't think lung cancer would help either."

He took a long drag before blowing the smoke in Shakira's face and she coughed, flapping her hands to rid the toxic before it could enter her body. "Whoops," and a snarky laugh followed. She felt her eye twitch the slightest in annoyance.

When the elevator doors finished taking its sweet time and opened, Shakira moved to pull the cigarette from between the man's teeth and tossed it into a trash can parked right outside. She walked with superiority and smugness, all before they dissolved when she heard him shout next to her,

"Nice shoes by the way!"

She felt his victory when she looked down at her bare feet.